The Blog of A Lover
by the-science-of-evidence
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock should've died in that fall. Life would be easier if he did. John could never bear to see his lover comatosed. With only three months to live. His heart failing. His body loosing. There was no hope. There was no point in saving a dead man walking—but John didn't listen. He couldn't. He wouldn't. Johnlock. Tragedy. Pure Angst. [The NTBK inspired]


**[Title: +****The Blog of A Lover+**

**[Pairing: JohnLock**

**[Genre: Tragedy. Pure Tragedy.**

**[Other notes: AU; Please read and review. Jannice Sace who helped me with grieving lines =)**

**[Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC or Sherlock Holmes in any way possible.**

* * *

+**The Blog of A Lover**+

"_Show me a Hero, I'll write you a tragedy…"_

Whispers and condolences made him realize that everything was over—no, not realize—but rather, _scar_ the truth of reality on to him. Leaving it there, marking it eternally for the world to know—for the world to simply take in. There was no other option, no other vision of a path.

Making it the only thing that cuts everyone to believe…

The feeling of despair that everyone should accept…

Inevitably of the truth etched upon stone.

It became a fact, the genuine truth of truth.

Though he knew it.

All along.

He knew it.

_"You can't take him from me!"_

_ "Please…"_

_ "You can't… Not him…"_

The shadow that loomed over him months ago, screaming everything to him; telling him that it was better to let go, it was better to give up and end it right there and then. There was no point in saving a dead man walking—but he didn't listen.

He couldn't_._

He _wouldn't._

He watches as the blurred figures pass him, telling him their silent condolences towards him more than the sibling of the departed.

He didn't want their pity, he didn't need it.

They didn't understand anything.

Their pain is only temporary.

But his will remain a flame, a flame that will continue to smolder his very being for the rest of his ephemeral life.

He prefers it if nothing happened to him—just not this.

_"Why him?"_

_ "He's… he's so much more…"_

The heaviness of the black clothing weighed upon him like chains, dragging him down restlessly… down to everything he's forever tried to avoid. But it was there. Just _there. _Knowing that he'd have to accept it, one way or another.

His hands clasp into a prayer,

His thoughts asking, begging, pleading, mourning for a miracle. _Any_ miracle to bring him back, he bargained his life for another lifetime with the man, another hope to see him, to feel him, to touch him, to simply be with him… but not like this… anything but _this_.

Time flew ever so slowly, a sickening pace that dragged his soul away from him… It made him want to wallow in his own world—and that's what he did. His world dawned into nothing but the last few days he had left with the man…

The man who was his everything… The man who _is _his everything.

* * *

He sat there, in that white monoblock chair, the heels of his hands stressfully placed against his eyes. He hasn't been sleeping for three days straight; fatigue was catching up to him. But he didn't want to sleep, not until the war was over,

Just like in Afghanistan.

Except this was different, there was no war—at least not literally.

But there was a only a dying man, a dying _lover_ by his side.

Seconds ticked away remorsefully, it sounded like a lullaby. A trance that enticed him to give into dreamless nights yet again… His head pounded for sleep, his body aching from exhaustion. He didn't want to wake up and discern that the counted minutes the end would leave him amidst his weary bodily needs.

He needed to stay awake. For him.

God, everything he does was for him.

The door opened and he made no attempt to move, he rested his arms on the bed inches away from the comatose body.

His eyes trailed towards his flatmate, taking in every detail his eyes could manage from the lack of sleep, he was awfully pale and his lips were parched, his nails were somehow blue against pink and the lines under his eyes were dark. It was almost as if the man was a corpse, he shuddered at the thought. But he forced it out of his system and listened to the lifeline at gave off a beep in a slow rhythm. Finding sanctuary at the white lies of the transient beats.

"…Sherlock…" that was the only time he realized someone was talking, he looked up with a bit of effort.

Mycroft looked at him, his gaze completely far from his usual sarcastic ones. He fiddled with the umbrella and sat opposite to John, he cleared his throat and looked at his sibling. His façade a bit broken, "Based from the doctor's findings… There is no absolute…"

John didn't need to listen because knew. Of course he knew. He was a doctor after all. But sometimes, he wished he wasn't. Sometimes it was better to not know anything than live in a life running on lies to make everything seem better—safer.

He avoids the IV line carefully and holds the sick man's hand lightly in his, "3 months at best…" he croaked, is voice breaking sentence. He didn't have to look at Mycroft to see the despondent nod.

* * *

**First Month**

* * *

Against everything, John virtually moves into his flatmate's ward thanks to Mycroft who made arrangements in the hospital to make his unit a special one…

He slept on the leather sofa that made his shoulder and leg begin to ache again, or that's where he decided to place the blame. It was better to hear that as an alibi compared from the fact that it was because of his flatmate who was practically and terribly dead.

People began crowding everyday in Sherlock's ward. They visit him and leave letters, food, and all sorts of mundane stuffs… They talk to John about their apologies.

But John knew better.

Sherlock wasn't dead.

He won't die.

They'd still be Boffin Sherlock Holmes and Bachelor John Watson when he wakes.

He'll wake up. He tells everyone (and himself) with a smile. He'll wake up.

Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft are the usual visitors. They would take turns, and never would they miss a day—as much as possible.

John almost felt as if they were there for _him_ more than the supposed person himself.

They talk about the past.

About how Sherlock being stupid and solar systems, Sherlock being brilliant and his skills on deduction, Sherlock being Sherlock and his acclaimed sociopathic ways, and Sherlock being a friend, a brother, a flatmate, and a lover—the person John wanted to live his life forever with.

John still laughs. His emotions controlled and he acted like nothing was wrong. And he believed in it.

But his hands would remain intertwined with the said person as he did. While everyone visits, John's fingers remain counting the pulse from the thin and frail wrist of his lover… The steady and weak pulse that becomes hope.

At night, when no one was there. Only the sound of the clock and the lifeline, John cried. Some days, he didn't sleep.

He listened.

And waited.

And one day, John went mad.

He lost it.

People were talking and a word slips…

One word: Funeral.

It's only the first month and they were getting on preparations for a funeral?!

John was fuming, he raged like no never before.

Screaming at the top of his voice, his hands holding his lover's as he fought for… nothing.

"You sick fucking bastards," he spat, "_he _trusted you with his life and now you're just giving up—preparing a fucking funeral while he's still here? Breathing! If it wasn't for _him_, we'd all be dead here! He had a fucking choice to let some bloody snipers shoot us but we damn well know he didn't—" his voice broke as he choked on the tears that wanted to leave, "It's our damn fault his like this! And you repay him with some fucking classy funeral plans? Fuck you."

"I expected more from you, but...you know what? You all were right; it's always been the two of us—and always has been. So that's how it will end. You've all abandoned him, and I'm still here. So what? Now you pity me? Oh, go on, He was right, you're _all_ idiots. Can't you hear it? He's still breathing—he's fighting. And here you are plotting his bloody death—don't you give me that look." John scowls and continues, "You were planning his funeral and that's as good as someone thinking of how to murder someone... I thought more of all of you... _all _of you. He's a fighter...he won't give up... it's all boring to him... he can't stay still for more than 5 minutes, don't you think he'll get fed up of just lying there—"

Mrs. Hudson tries to comfort him while crying herself, "No, Mrs. Hudson, No, it's not okay! It's not. Sherlock is alive and we all know it-" He shakes in anger getting off track, the doctors tried to get him to calm down but he didn't, "Leave! We don't need anyone here—leave!" he screamed, they tried to speak but let go of the other's wrist and he shut the door.

He cried locking the door. Ignoring the threats of the doctor…

He could hear Mycroft telling the doctors to leave them be… and the wave of fury subsided—barely.

John looked at his lover's still body and cried, "Why me?! It's not fair, damn it!" He bawled into his arms voicelessly, "Of all people why me?! I fought for freedom; I fought for others without saying anything. Without a fight. Then why the fuck does every single thing I love break?!" He walks to Sherlock and places his hand on top of the others, "I love you… So please… wake up."

* * *

**Second Month**

* * *

Days turned into Weeks and the rage was long forgotten.

No one dared bring up the funeral again and John apologized and everyone empathizes with no question. The atmosphere was still tense at times, probably because Sherlock's health was slowly failing.

And the signs were noticeable…

And John's sanity was also wearing thin,

He knew he was hopeless.

His lover would never wake up.

He was alone again.

Protected by the same thing that destroyed him years ago—himself.

His limp returned but he didn't get therapy.

He already knew the cause, and he didn't feel the need to heal it—he wanted the same person to save him again.

The same person who caught him.

"Sherlock…" he whispers on that unspoken darkness, "I will give you anything… You can have any experiment lying around the flat, any amputated body part _anywhere_. You can shoot holes through walls—I'll pay for the rent. I'll buy milk. I'll do the dishes. I won't complain. I won't scold you. I'll do anything you ask of me… just do one thing. One miracle, for me," He swallows hard, "Sherlock." The name lasted on his lips, "Don't die. Not yet. Not now. Not ever." He holds his hand close to his chest, "I… I can't. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready."

"Sherlock… you said that heroes don't exist. And well, this already proves you wrong. I was right—friends protect people. But… I guess you're right too… Alone is what will protect me… now?" It came out as a question rather than a dignified statement, he slams his head to the softness of the hospital bed, "I wish you weren't a hero. I wish you were some selfish guy—I'd rather die than see you like this. You're not like this. You're not made to lie down helpless. You're made to run on rooftops, go off on adventures. I'm the one who's supposed to be laying around… blogging."

"If you'd be lost without your blogger. Then I'd be lost without my hero." He looks up to the empty immaculate ceiling, "You can't take him away from me… please… I'd do anything." he tightens his hold, "Sherlock can't… can't _die_." The word was venom in his mouth, "He just can't. If he needs anything—I'll give it without any question. He is my everything…"

"I love you." He whispers as he gives into sleep.

* * *

**Third Month**

* * *

Sherlock flat-lined for the first time.

After a couple of torturous minutes—that seemed to go for hours.

Everyone waiting.

_One…_

There was nothing.

The heavy sounds of electric currents echoed through the room.

Nothing.

_Two…_

Higher voltage.

Louder shocks.

Nothing.

_Three…_

Last try…

A beep.

He's back.

His eyes shot open reveling glasz and bewildered irises.

The doctors relieved themselves and had given the news with a measured smile.

John cried. Mycroft cried. Molly cried. Lestrade cried. Mrs. Hudson cried.

Donovan gave a sob along with Anderson after hearing the news.

He's back—

—but he's also gone.

Sherlock was gone.

His eyes were distant, no signs of recognition as he saw us.

He was brought to the Intensive Care Unit, his body frail and his pulse weakening.

* * *

** Four days.**

* * *

Four days.

Those were all the days left of Sherlock given, at most.

And his heart would give in.

His organs can no longer sustain himself.

He _will_ die.

* * *

**Day One**

* * *

"Good morning…" John whispers as he enters the ward, the man was a bit stable now.

For now.

The male looked at him with dull eyes, "'Morning…" he whispered. His voice husky, "You are?"

"John… John Watson. You're flatmate." He said a bit brighter than necessary.

Sherlock nodded alienated by the guest, he decided not to comment on it.

John helped him with a glass of water which was left to only be downed by a half.

No words were exchanged until John opened a notebook with an affectionate smile.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John looked at Sherlock, his eyes widened, "Afghanistan…" he was about to kiss the person but continued, remembering his words, "How did you know?"

Sherlock stared at him and rolled his eyes, "You already know how." He muttered despondently and sighs, he then looks up…

John licks his lips, "Are you bored?"

"Obviously."

The smaller man was radiating in happiness.

Having conversations like this… it was already a miracle.

Only… a miracle that won't last long.

John smiles and shifts closer to the male, "I'll tell you a story then."

"I'd rather you not." He reaches out for the water again.

"You'll like this." John presses.

Sherlock looks at him while drinking; he stops to speak, "You're an army doctor."

"I am." John nods with a fond smile.

"You got shot."

"Yes…"

"Hmm…" Sherlock drinks again.

John groans, "I'll read the story or simply get bored."

The man on bed makes a sound of disapproval but made no attempt to stop the blond from speaking…

John grinned in smug triumph, "This is a story about a doctor and a consulting detective, the only one in the world…" he began, "29th of January: A Strange Meeting… I don't know how I'm meant to be writing this. I'm not a writer. Ella thought keeping a blog would help but it hasn't because nothing ever happens to me. But today, something did. Something happened…"

John read on and on…

Hoping that something might make Sherlock remember.

Make Sherlock fight for life.

Something…

Anything…

And, right now, he feels as if nothing was wrong.

"The 7th of February, A Study in Pink…" John ignores the gesture of disapproval of Sherlock and continues reading, "I've blacked out a few names and places because of legal matters but, other than that, this is what happened on the night I moved in with Sherlock Holmes. When I first met Sherlock, he told me my life story…"

The ward seemed to shift at some point,

They were in their flat.

Reviewing old cases.

John reading aloud to infuriate Sherlock.

Sherlock ignoring his lover with an adorable smile,

Everything was perfect.

But John felt the thin sheet of glass under his feet.

And he knew it will break.

And it will only take Sherlock.

It was fate.

Screw fate.

"1st of April: The Great Game—" John spoke up, he felt the tears coming.

Sherlock spoke, "Is this fiction?"

John looked at the man, who seems entranced at the story.

And Sherlock's deductions.

He rolls his eyes at some point saying that it would be so much better if it wasn't _dramatic_.

The doctor laughs as tells him that the detective loves being dramatic.

Sherlock coughs.

And coughs.

And coughs.

John was panicking.

He stood up but Sherlock held him down by the shoulder.

The consulting detective shook his head, "I'm fine." He coughed out, "Continue."

John looked at him.

"Just… continue…" Sherlock whispers as he leans back on the inclined bed, he closes his eyes but doesn't fall asleep.

The blond feels the crack beneath his feet.

Hoping it would mend at some point.

But it doesn't.

"13TH of July: The Speckled Blonde…" John begins and Sherlock mutters, _what kind of title is that?_, it goes ignored and John continues, "Early thirties, dyed blonde hair, strange red speckles all over her body. The woman, Julia Stoner, had been found in her bed. There seemed to be no obvious cause of death…"

Seconds passed…

Then the minute hand moves…

Then after a round…

The hour hand…

John hears the sounds agonizingly clear in his ears,

He knows he can't stop time.

He knows he can't stop fate.

But he will make the most of it.

He'll make Sherlock happy.

Even in death.

He wants Sherlock…

To feel loved.

Because he is.

And he will be.

Forever.

John turns to the night sky, Sherlock was asleep.

He waits for a shooting star.

A clichéd dream.

Nothing.

There were only stars staring back at him.

He could almost hear them apologizing.

He turns to Sherlock, "I love you."

-Three days more.

* * *

**Day Two**

* * *

John wakes up from Sherlock's trashing about.

The doctors rush in and pushes John out while they stabilize the patient's condition.

They reported that Sherlock's lungs were failing.

It'd give out.

Sometime this week.

God forbid it would be today.

John enters again.

A new contraption sticking onto Sherlock's usually lithe body, an oxygen mask.

He stares at John and John stares back.

"You are?" he whispers.

John felt his heart break for the uncountable time that day.

"John Watson…" he replies sitting beside him, "I'm your flatmate…"

Today was like yesterday.

John re-read their cases unknown to the patient that they were true.

Believing it to only fiction.

A fragment of the doctor's imagination.

And the doctor knows that it will soon be.

Visitors came today, because they simply wanted John to be with Sherlock yesterday.

Sherlock seems like himself.

He spits his deductions around even with an oxygen mask.

He hates his brother at one glance.

He enjoys talking looking through cold cases that the DI gave him.

He nods at Molly's findings and stories in the lab.

But most of all, he orders John around like normal.

"Hand me over that ballpen."

"John, a cup of tea would be nice."

"Obviously, John."

"John…"

"John…"

Still, with every mention of his name…

He feels the glass underneath tremble and crack a bit more.

Suddenly, John has this urge to bring Sherlock out.

But John decided against it.

And as they left, John continues his story.

"Sherlock." John mutters silently.

The patient looks questioningly… sleepily...

"I love you." He states brushing his lips softly upon the latter's forehead.

And Sherlock forgets it all as he sleeps.

-Two days more.

* * *

**Day Three**

* * *

John almost loses his heart when he wakes up and Sherlock wasn't there.

No, actually.

He has long lost it.

But only in that time he remembers that it's biologically attached to him.

Whether he hates it or not.

John was frantic.

He felt his world grow cold.

He runs out and was greeted by a doctor.

The other doctor explains that Sherlock went through convulsions last night and was transferred to the ICU again.

And without another word, John dashes away.

Every step, another crack.

God help him.

He was dying.

His heart was dying.

Yet he already felt dead.

His notebook in hand.

He walks to the ICU.

Sherlock was awake.

He holds himself not to run.

Not to beg.

He goes to his side introducing himself.

He tells the story aloud.

But he doesn't read it anymore.

Rather, he finally talks about it.

It, being his life with Sherlock.

It, being the pain in the ass his flatmate was.

It, being the love of his life forgetting him.

It, being the months that passed that almost killed him.

It, being everything about the man he loves.

And finally—he cries.

God, he didn't know.

He was broken.

And lost.

He wanted this man to hold him.

To love him like before.

He wanted him to tell him that it will be okay.

That everything will end up alright.

That this was all just a dream.

He wants to wake up in the arms of a healthy consulting detective.

He wishes…

He wishes that he had his gun and get this all over with.

There was nothing more.

Until Sherlock spoke.

"I don't understand who you are…" he said unconsciously reaching out to wipe the tears away, "I can't remember. But… There is one thing. One thing that my brain kills me about."

John stares back into the other's eyes.

"It's a small… flat…" He ponders quietly, his eyes closed, "There's something there. Something important."

The doctor nods and cries.

"It's sanctuary…" the patient breaks off, and tears welled in his eyes, "I… It's soft and comforting. It is home. That person was home. He was warm… and… loving. He was always _there_."

John holds Sherlock's hand, "Home…" he repeats against the knuckles, "I love you…" he mutters, "I love you."

Sherlock opens his eyes, only dull grey was there, he then stares at him as if breaking from a trance, "Who are you?"

"No one…" John cries into the hand, holding on for his dear life, "No one…"

-One day.

* * *

**Day Four. Last Day.**

* * *

Sherlock never made it.

Everyone was already there before his body gave in.

John called them already.

Tears…

Every drop made the glass crack.

It was already broken.

The man has already fallen.

John didn't cry in front of them.

He couldn't.

He arranged the funeral with Mycroft and the others.

He didn't take care of himself.

He's taken jobs.

Drowning himself in papers.

Suffocating himself in a leash of grief.

He didn't want to let go.

"I love you…"

"Why did you leave…"

"I love you…"

* * *

Funeral bells rang.

He dressed in black.

He looked over at the casket as they brought it out of the hearse.

Perfect.

He was perfect.

Even at death…

* * *

Whispers and condolences made him realize that everything was over—no, not realize—but rather, _scar_ the truth of reality on to him. Leaving it there, marking it eternally for the world to know—for the world to simply take in. There was no other option, no other vision of a path.

Making it the only thing that cuts everyone to believe…

The feeling of despair that everyone should accept…

Inevitably of the truth etched upon stone.

It became a fact, the genuine truth of truth.

Though he knew it.

All along.

He knew it.

They'd still be Boffin Sherlock Holmes and Bachelor John Watson.

Even in death.

It'd be them against the world.

A year after Sherlock's death.

John was also dead.

He lived his life for no one.

Not even himself.

Everyday was hell.

Until a blessing came and swept in.

The same date.

Same time.

Down to the same second.

Headlines:

Bachelor John Watson.

Died in a car accident.

* * *

Fate has their ways.

Just like an author has their word.

* * *

"I'm home."

"You're an idiot."

* * *

**FIN**

* * *

**the-science-of-evidence**


End file.
